And her face is ... neutral. Matter-of-fact.

His hands come down, and curl around the edge of the crate he's sitting on.

(The crate's a little dusty. He hasn't really noticed.)

"It's not that I think you're mad," he tries one last time. "It's just ... there's a difference between 'you're not mad' and 'everything's fine,' and ..."

He swallows.

"It doesn't seem like everything's fine. Is it me? Am I imagining things?"